


and all shall be well

by TheKnittingJedi



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Chronic Illness, Headaches & Migraines, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Multi, Pre-Relationship, Psychic Bond, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Sickfic, The Magnus Archives Hurt/Comfort Week, Touch-Starved, blink and you'll miss it though they're fine, life in the archives ain't so glam, set after MAG 22, whatever the gerrymichael relationship implies in terms of light dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26100925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKnittingJedi/pseuds/TheKnittingJedi
Summary: The Magnus Archives Hurt/Comfort Week 2020 Fills: a collection of short, standalone fics.
Relationships: Agnes Montague/Gertrude Robinson, Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 32
Kudos: 87





	1. lay so still

**Author's Note:**

> _Chapter 1 - lay so still_ : a safehouse JonMartin ficlet set between MAG 159 and MAG 160 for the prompts **self-worth issues** , **pretend** and **shaky hands** , rated G, 732 words. CW: past shame over a medical condition (essential tremor)
> 
>  _Chapter 2 - let me let you go_ : an exploration of the bond between Gertrude and Agnes for the prompt **treating/distracting from injuries** , rated G, 640 words. CW: implied self-harm
> 
>  _Chapter 3 - tell me your troubles, i'll listen for free_ : a pre-relationship WhatTheGirlfriend sickfic for the prompts **sickfic** and **misunderstanding** , rated G, 940 words.
> 
>  _Chapter 4 - one of these days_ : Jon comforts Daisy after MAG 132 for the prompts **touch-starved** and **fragile** , rated G, 950 words.
> 
>  _Chapter 5 - no asylum here_ : a Gerry/Distortion!Michael ficlet for the prompts **hiding pain/injury** and **calm** , rated M, 1100 words. CW: light dub-con
> 
>  _Chapter 6 - hungry darkness of living_ : Daisy and Basira being there for each other, for the prompts **delirium/confusion** and **accident** , rated G, 939 words. CW: blood from minor injury
> 
>  _Chapter 7 - things you said to me_ : post-MAG 22 JonMartin for the prompts **messy breakdown** and **home** , rated G, 930 words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Tags and CWs: JonMartin, past shame over a medical condition (early essential tremor)  
> Prompts: self-worth issues, pretend, shaky hands  
> Word count: 732
> 
> Title from R.E.M.'s _King of Birds_.

Jon jumps when the blanket touches his shoulders. Everything is still so  _ new  _ and  _ raw _ after escaping the Lonely, and the Scottish peace and quiet is only just now starting to feel like a reprieve.

Two warm hands lay on his shoulders over the blanket, stilling him. “It’s just me.”

It’s never  _ just _ Martin, but Jon doesn’t correct him. The weight of his hands is an unexpected comfort that ends too soon, but it can barely be mourned that Martin sits next to Jon on the old, musty couch, sinking in it.

The movement makes Jon lean in, as if pulled in by gravity, and he doesn’t fight it. This is also new.

They take a few moments to settle in, then Jon breaks the silence. “Why the blanket? I mean, thank you, but I wasn’t cold.”

Martin clicks his tongue. “I looked for tea, but there isn’t any. And you’re shaking.”

“Oh.” Jon looks at the familiar sight of his trembling hands and considers all the lies he’s told, the pretenses. He exhales them all away. Guilt has no place here. “I always do.”

There’s a beat while the meaning of his words sinks in. “What? Really?”

Realising that’s a lie, Jon shakes his head. “I have since my early twenties. Tremor. A hassle to explain, more than anything.”

“I never noticed it.” Now Martin sounds more hurt than surprised.

Holding the blanket closed with one hand, Jon reaches out with the other to cover Martin’s. Their fingers lace together as if it were their natural purpose. “I never wanted anyone to notice.”

They’re so close that Jon can feel Martin’s restlessness. “No, but I should have…”

“You  _ couldn’t  _ have. I was very careful.” He remembers how natural hiding his hands under his desk came after a while, or waiting until he was alone to drink Martin’s tea, letting it cool down enough to hold the cup with both hands. 

And yet something slipped, of course. He thinks about Tim making fun of his handwriting. Or the times he decided he would look more unkempt with the shadow of a beard than with his face covered in cuts. Or how he got so used to hurting himself in the kitchen that the scalds and the injuries became par for the course, until Georgie noticed and bullied him into getting a diagnosis.

“It’s… easier to overlook a thing like that in a professional context, especially if one does his best to conceal it.”

“That’s not the point! And even if it  _ was  _ true, I… We've been alone with each other for  _ days,  _ how could I not have noticed?” Martin runs his free hand through his hair, which gets all mussed up.

Something inside Jon’s chest clenches with the ache to smooth it down. Then he remembers he can, so he does.

Martin flinches, surprised, but then lets out a shaky breath and lets Jon pet his hair. Jon leans in a bit more, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders. They are both getting used to contact, learning how to be around each other. “You noticed.”

“What do you mean?”

Jon’s smile is as delicate as the memory that elicits it. “You kept holding my hands.”

He watches as Martin remembers all the time he has taken one or both of Jon’s hands in his, apparently without realising it, on buses and trains, during the endless waits and the lulls in their journey. 

A blush blooms on Martin’s cheeks, drowning out the freckles. Jon wants to kiss it, all of it, and he will, but right now the man is too flustered already, and Jon’s not entirely devoid of mercy. He lowers the hand that has done more damage than good to the state of Martin’s hair. “It’s alright.”

“Is it… Can I…”

“You can ask.”

“Is it painful?”

“No. It’s just… It gets worse when I’m nervous.”

Martin nods. They’ve both had plenty of reasons to be nervous in the last few years. Then he shakes his head. “Why are you hiding it?”

“I’m not anymore.” Jon inhales, straightens. He feels small and naked without the protection of his pretenses, and he wants to get used to it. “I thought it made me weak. That it meant  _ I  _ was weak. I was ashamed of it. I’m past that, now.” He scoffs. “My worst weaknesses lie elsewhere.”

“Hey.” Martin catches both his hands. “No trash-talking my boyfriend.” And he seals that sentence by kissing the palm of Jon’s right hand, blushing furiously and completely avoiding eye contact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find the Tumblr post for this ficlet [here!](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com/post/627343492024352768/lay-so-still)


	2. let me let you go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Tags and CWs: Gertrude/Agnes, self-harm  
> Prompts: treating/distracting from injuries  
> Word count: 639
> 
> Title from Billie Eilish's _when the party is over_.

It happens almost a week after the ritual. The pain in Gertrude’s left hand is so strong and sudden that the pen she was holding drops and clatters on the floor, disappearing under the rusty filing cabinet near her office door.

She doesn’t cry out. She’s trained herself out of the reflex, so nobody will ever have the satisfaction of hearing her scream.

She clutches her wrist with her other, uninjured hand as the pain becomes a constant throbbing. It takes her a while to convince her fingers to unfurl. Her palm is intact, the skin rosy, if a bit dry. She stretches out her palm so the heart, head and life lines are almost flat, checks under her close-trimmed nails, lets go of her wrist to run cautious fingertips over the thin layer of skin covering veins and tendons and bones.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Except it feels like a hot poker is pressing down into her flesh.

There could be a perfectly mundane explanation. A nerve flaring up. A stitch of some sort. Or perhaps…

Gertrude scoffs. She values her intelligence too much to believe she’s just  _ imagined _ it.

Her mind goes to a secluded clearing in a Scottish wood. Her thoughts have been wandering around there since she got tricked into a web of lies. Well, nothing to be done about it. She needs to go back and add some wards, both to protect the bond and… keep it from becoming too strong.

Unbidden, her mind goes somewhere else, and this time it’s not a memory. 

She sees a woman, not much younger than her, but made ageless by the weight of the destiny someone else has put on her shoulders. Gertrude sees her holding a flame in her hand — a candle, tipping it until the hot wax drips on her skin, her expression unchanged, no pain or fear on her delicate, fey features.

She sees the young woman dropping the candle, careless, confrontational, muttering a curt answer to a question Gertrude cannot hear, and suddenly there's a knife in her right hand, but she doesn't use it to attack whoever is with her.

Well. Here's an explanation, as reasonable as any other in Gertrude's line of work.

The pain from the phantom stab wound is a reminder that Gertrude can't allow this… bond to go so far, to get so deep. Yes, a trip to Scotland seems to be in order.

She closes her aching hand, wrapping her fist with the other, and holds it against her chest, trying to overcome the pain. “I’m so sorry, Agnes,” she whispers. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, even as she suspects she shouldn’t.

Everyone thinks she has a heart of stone. And they are correct. But somewhere there’s a girl who hasn’t asked for any of it, a girl who deserves to have her head stroked by a gentle hand and her path to be chosen by none other than herself.

It’s late at night when the pain starts to fade. Is the link weakening? Do a Messiah's wounds heal with a thought, or is the child of the Lightless Flame too human for that? Gertrude’s last thought before falling asleep — a thought she forgets as soon as she’s formulated it — is that she hopes there’s no more suffering.

(Somewhere far away, where she’s being watched to prevent any other “useless and childish attempts”, the Messiah feels that thought, because it’s not just pain that can travel along the path between her and the archivist.

It cannot be the first time she’s experienced compassion: it must have happened before for her to recognise the feeling. And yet it feels like it.

Agnes cradles that thought, holds it against her chest with hands that don’t bear the faintest scar, and she falls asleep, serene.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find the Tumblr post for this ficlet [here!](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com/post/627427872895827968/let-me-let-you-go)


	3. tell me your troubles, I'll listen for free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Tags: Georgie/Melanie, pre-relationship, chronic migraine  
> Prompts: sickfic, misunderstanding  
> Word count: 939
> 
> Title from Mark Knopfler's _Heart Full of Holes_.

The worst thing about migraines — except of course the soul-crushing, mind-shattering pain — is that doing  _ anything  _ is impossible. They bring Georgie’s productivity levels to zero, and she can’t afford it.

She’s usually very diligent about avoiding triggers and keeping painkillers on hand, but this time the stars have aligned in the worst and cruelest of ways. That’s why she’s spending what could have been a perfectly prolific Wednesday morning in bed, with the shutters closed and the curtains drawn for good measure. The simple action of feeding her cat has drained all her energies, and she’s lying down with a hand pressed over her left eye. It doesn’t ease the pain or the nausea, but it gives her the illusion that she can keep her brain inside her head long enough to send Jon an emergency text.

Jon became her Migraine Person quite organically, since he was around when the damn things first started to appear, and his laconic and efficient manners make him both helpful and tolerable to be around.

He definitely knows he shouldn’t be calling her during an episode.

Georgie cracks open her right eye enough to press the red button and reject the call. But Jon wouldn’t break rule number one if it wasn’t for something important.

So she presses the green button instead and gingerly brings the phone to her ear. “Nnnnh.”

“Hi, uh… Are you all right?”

Migraine or no migraine, Georgie can tell this is  _ not _ Jon.

Whoever it is, they’re smart enough to decipher her silence. “It’s Melanie. The text you just sent me was… bizarre.”

This is not even the worst way Georgie’s messed up during a migraine spell, but… “Wasn’t meant for you. Sorry.” She clenches her jaw when the hot poker in her brain twists viciously all of a sudden. “Migraine,” she explains, as soon as she can talk again.

“Oh, those things are vicious.” There’s a short silence. “Look, is your address still the same? I’m coming over.”

Georgie considers telling her no, but by the time she’s made up her mind Melanie has already hung up.

There’s a knock at the door half an hour later. With a hand on the wall for balance and the other still pressed above her left eye, Georgie makes her way to the door. “Thanks for not ringing the bell,” she croaks out to the vague shape she hopes is Melanie and not a madman with an axe.

“No problem. My mum had bad migraines. I know all the dos and don’ts.” The soft-spoken shape holds up a paper bag. “You said you needed painkillers in your text, but I didn’t know if you had preferences or allergies, so I got a bunch of things.”

As she takes the meds, Georgie hopes that her short sigh is enough to convey gratitude.

Melanie is still hovering in the doorway. “Do you want tea? I could make you some. Some of those work better if you take them with something warm.”

A scorchingly-hot cup of herbal tea is part of her migraine routine when Jon’s around, in fact, so Georgie motions Melanie to come into her dimly-lit flat. “Sorry, tour next time.” She knows she looks probably ridiculous, moving around like she’s a full glass about to spill. “Close the door, or the Admiral will go out.”

“Ooh. Dog?”

A meowing noise answers her, and Georgie hears Melanie saying hello to the furry fiend on their way to the kitchen. Life saver  _ and  _ cat lover. Why doesn’t she hang out with Melanie more?

“Kettle, tea. Ow.” As she’s pointing at them, the pain spikes. If she stays very still, maybe, the migraine will think she’s dead and move on.

Melanie shoos her away. “Go lie down. I’ll find my way around.”

And this is how she finds herself in her bed, waiting for the painkillers to bring the soreness from DEFCON 1 levels to tolerable ones, with a mug in her hands, her cat in her lap and her pillows fluffed. 

Melanie is standing by the bed. “I’ll better wait until you’re back in the land of the living. In case you need anything else.”

Georgie reaches out until she finds Melanie’s hand and squeezes. “Thanks.” She clears her throat, trying to make her voice sound like it hasn’t recently been sandpapered. “You can stay here.”

“You sure?”

“Plenty of space. And comfortable. I’ve already inconvenienced you enough.”

She scoffs. “It’s not like I had anything better to do.” The bed dips when Melanie climbs on it and places a few pillows against the headboard to prop herself up, and Georgie braces herself, but it’s not enough to make the migraine flare. Melanie is cautious and her movements measured. Granted, it’s probably because the room is dark and she has to feel her way around that, but Georgie appreciates the thoughtfulness behind her careful movements.

“Is work slow?” she whispers, once Melanie’s settled.

Melanie makes an  _ mmm  _ noise. “After Sarah Baldwin, I feel like I need a break.”

“You haven’t told me what happened.”

“Oh, no. Once was enough. Ask your friend at that creepy institute. If you want a spooky story, I’ll read aloud a creepypasta on my phone.”

Georgie tries to laugh without moving a muscle. “Please, do.”

“Are you serious?”

“As long as you keep your voice down.”

Georgie’s last thought before she dozes off — when her mug is empty and she’s made herself cozy under a blanket, after the Admiral has moved from her lap to Melanie’s, while the painkillers lull her to sleep — is that, yes, she should hang out with Melanie more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find the Tumblr post for this ficlet [here!](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com/post/627520804351000576/tell-me-your-troubles-ill-listen-for-free)


	4. one of these days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Tags: Daisy & Jon, post-Buried  
> Prompts: touch-starved, fragile  
> Word count: 950
> 
> Title from the eponymous Pink Floyd's song.

Daisy is slowly going mad.

She’s helpless and she doesn’t like it. Some people don’t mind. They’re comfortable when they can’t do anything. _It’s out of my hands, it’s not my fault._ She’s not comfortable. There’s never been a problem she couldn’t solve, even if sometimes that looks more like ‘obliterating the issue from existence’. That one guy who cut the knot with a sword had the right idea.

No, Daisy’s not a chess person.

Which is why, in her worst moments, when her limbs are too weak even to shake, when the call of the Hunt is deafening but she couldn’t answer even if she tried, when her breath comes ragged and her eyes sting and her skin is covered in a cold, disgusting sheen of sweat, she hides in the storage room. Waiting for the storm to pass far from anyone’s eyes.

She’s always very careful about not being followed, so, when the sound of footsteps pierces the fog in her head, she just waits for them to move on.

Instead, the door opens.

She doesn’t move, except to curl even tighter in the shadows. This room has probably never seen a cleaner and there’s all sort of dirt and muck on this floor; it’s certainly not a place where you’d want to press your cheek, waiting for your brain to stop screaming and your body to start answering to you again. But you can’t always get what you want.

“I know you’re here, Daisy.” Jon’s voice is soft and, when she doesn’t answer, it gets even softer. Kinder. “I’ll leave, if you tell me to.”

No point in trying to hide from an all-seeing eye. Daisy exhales from her nose, noisily, giving silent permission, but Jon doesn’t move. Can’t fucking take a hint, not even now. “I shouldn’t be on my own.” Her voice is low, rasping, more fitting for prey than predator.

That’s apparently enough, because a few moments later Jon sits on the floor next to her, careful not to invade her space, orientating himself perfectly even with the lights out. They stay like that, in silence, for the time it takes Daisy to attune to the pulsing of Jon’s blood. _Not prey,_ she tells herself. She tries to let it soothe her hunger instead of kindling it. Like white noise, or those whale songs that are supposed to be relaxing.

She turns her head to look at him in the half-darkness. Can’t even tell if he’s looking at her, if he even needs to. She can barely make out his scrawny, hunched frame before her dirty hair falls all over her face. She spits a strand of it out of her mouth. “Keeps going everywhere.” It’s been eight months since her last haircut, after all. “Should just cut it all.”

There’s movement beside her and for a second it’s up in the air — whether she will flinch or scream or hide or attack or…

Nothing.

In the end, she does nothing. At least until Jon stops, his hand hovering just a few inches above her head, nearly touching the shell of her ear but not quite. She almost scoffs. She’s not a dog, that needs to get used to a scent and a presence.

“You could tie it back.”

“Too short.”

“Then I could… Nevermind.”

While she would usually commend him for shutting up, this is the longest conversation she’s had since… well, since their last one, and she doesn’t want to think about the last time they talked. She doesn’t know if it’s the unbidden memory of the coffin or just _her,_ but her head jerks and suddenly she’s pressing into Jon’s hand, leaning into his touch like she needs it.

It’s pathetic. _She_ is pathetic. It’s the embarrassment that brings tears in her eyes as Jon pets her hair, brushing it out of her face without making a sound, ignoring the mess Daisy is making of herself now that the dam is broken and there’s nothing – no spite, no scorn, no scorching regret – keeping the hurt in, so it has to go all out. It’s just physics.

Jon doesn’t judge her, she can tell. He better not tell anyone, if he knows what’s good for him. Especially not Basira. Daisy doesn’t remember the last time she’s touched her like this, the last time she’s acknowledged that Daisy occupies a space, has a physical presence. Now Basira looks at her like she doesn’t know her. Like she doesn’t trust her.

“Tell me.” Anything to distract herself from those thoughts.

Jon exhales like a man who’s going to regret what he’s about to say. “I could braid it for you.”

After a surprised silence, Daisy snorts. “What.”

He sighs again, but in irritation. “I’ve always had my hair long, my grandmother used to braid it and she taught me when she got arthritis. Do you want my help or not?”

Right now, he sounds less like the broken, battered thing that’s emerged from the coffin with her and more like the stuckup arsehole that Daisy remembers from their first meeting. She doesn’t know if that’s an improvement, but the fact that his hand is still protectively on her head undercuts a lot of his sharpness. “Help me up from this disgusting floor,” is what she says.

(There will be bad days and not-so-bad days, before the end of the world, but from now on Daisy will have this: the knowledge that there’s a port, however unexpected, in this angry sea; the memory of careful hands untangling the knots in her matted hair followed by apologies; her assurance that _she’s not fragile._ And the promise that _he knows._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find this ficlet on Tumblr [here!](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com/post/627627355246067712/one-of-these-days)


	5. no asylum here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This can be considered a sequel to [in the mirror's mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24801943), one of my other GerryMichael fics, but can be read independently.
> 
> Rating: M  
> Tags and CWs: Gerry/Michael!Distortion, veeery light dubcon  
> Prompts: hiding injury, calm  
> Word count: 1100
> 
> Title from _Straight to Hell_ (The Clash).

There’s a door in Gerry’s flat that doesn’t belong here. Not because it clashes with the rest of the décor — interior design is the last thing on Gerry’s mind on any given day.

It’s because the yellow frame opens where just this morning there was a wall. The windows on either side of it show the Christmas lights on the next building’s balcony, twinkling in the gloom of a December evening through the dirty window panes. The door itself, which is open, seems to lead into a long corridor instead. The hardwood floor that stretches to infinity doesn’t seem to join properly with the mirrored walls.

At least from what Gerry can see behind the figure currently leaning against the frame.

He drops his carrier bag on the floor and shrugs off his coat. The bright neon light pouring out of the door is enough to make the flat’s own lights redundant, so Gerry doesn’t bother turning them on.

As he kicks off his boots, he breaks the silence. “Waiting for a written invitation?” He crosses the flat’s only room to wash the underground gunk off his hands at the kitchenette sink, turning his back on Michael without a second thought. It’s not like it changes anything.

He doesn’t notice the low static in the background until it suddenly intensifies, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. There’s a hollow buzzing in his ears too, not so different from a pressure drop.

He ignores it all.

“I like the new place.” Michael’s voice is still how Gerry remembers it, like the inside of his ears are being peeled off. “You were in a hospital.”

Drying his hands on a tea cloth, Gerry cocks his head. “Not recently. The last time was…” He leafs through his mental catalogue of chases and injuries and accidents. “A year ago. But I don’t think that time has any meaning for you. Or anything else, I suppose.”

“Some things have meaning.” The static grows as Michael comes closer.

It’s only mildly painful, much like touching a low voltage cable with bare hands. One of the things parents tell their kids they’re not supposed to do. But how could you know what it feels like otherwise?

Blunt fingers graze his neck, moving his hair with surprising delicacy, and Gerry keeps completely still. Cold lips are pressed on the side of his neck, making his nerves tingle all the way down his toes. His survival instinct is screaming at him something primal and urgent. He is in danger.

Ignoring it with a conscious effort, Gerry leans his head back. “Nothing happened.” He doesn’t bother asking Michael how it knows about the hospital. Straight answers are not its thing.

When Michael’s fingers start to wander, Gerry sighs. He remembers what happened last time. “Wait. I actually care about this shirt.” He takes it off, letting it fall on the floor, where at least it will stay in one piece.

In the sudden silence — even the background static that follows the Distortion everywhere turns into a low hum — Michael goes still. Gerry can’t see it, but he can sense the utter lack of motion, and he’s never been so certain that, whatever Michael is, “human” is no longer a valid qualifier.

It takes him a few seconds to process what Michael says next. “I can kill with a thought.”

“What was that?” When no answer comes (obviously, what was he thinking), carefully, slowly, Gerry turns around.

Michael doesn’t make eye contact. It’s looking at his scars. 

“I will kill whoever did this.” Michael’s voice has lost its usual lilting tone. He sounds less like the Mad Hatter and more like a judge reading a death sentence. 

Gerry wonders if it’s wrong to be touched by that. “You can’t.”

When Michael finally looks at him, it’s confused. “But I will make them suffer.”

Biting back a laugh, Gerry shakes his head. “I mean I already took care of that.” The memory of a scalpel breaking charred skin and sinking in Diego Molina’s throat is not one he’s particularly eager to revisit, so he resolutely sets it apart.

There’s a long, heavy silence, during which they look at each other. Gerry’s temples start to throb, but he won’t be the one to lose this staring contest. Then the floor tilts under his feet when Michael suddenly laughs. “Of  _ course  _ you did.”

Gerry knows that he is imagining the pride in its tone, let alone the affection. It’s just what he wants to hear. And the reason he kisses Michael right then has less to do with that and more with the fact that it will take his mind off those thoughts, prevent him from slipping down a dangerous slope.

Also, it’s really been too long since he felt that live-wire mouth on his lips, and on his pulse point, and…

Afterwards, things are calm.

At some point during the evening, the yellow door closed, letting darkness pool into Gerry’s flat. The static is just a murmur, as it always happens, and as he lays on the bed he never makes, catching his breath, Gerry thinks that he should enjoy this rare bit of peace.

But there’s never been a silence that he didn’t want to break, analyse, dissect.

“Why do you keep coming back?”

He knows Michael is beside him, even if he can’t hear it breathe. This silence stretches for so long that Gerry starts considering whether to explain himself or — something extreme — let the matter drop entirely.

And then, “It’s a hard question.” Michael’s tone is dreamlike, contemplative. “Mirrors can’t reflect upon themselves, can they? But,” it adds, before Gerry can absorb that notion, “I will give you the most accurate answer I can. Why you? The aftertaste of curiosity in your fear is… heady.”

Gerry turns towards the sound of its voice, knowing that it doesn’t necessarily mean Michael is where he thinks it is. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Oh, pretty one, you’re too smart for that,” Michael says, when it stops laughing.

Gerry opens his mouth to insist, but he’s not sure how to make the point that fear is part of the deal and it wouldn’t make sense otherwise. A jumble of half-answers blooms and withers in his mind, all having to do with loneliness and a messed up childhood and a faulty sense of self-preservation, and he discards them all.

He sighs. He should stop trying to give Michael honest answers. It’s so depressingly telling that his safest harbour is the incarnation of lies and deception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find the Tumblr post for this ficlet [here!]()


	6. hungry darkness of living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set before the events of July 18, 2014 as narrated by Basira in MAG 43: Section 31.
> 
> Rating: G  
> CWs: blood from minor injury, and they’re still cops  
> Prompts: delirium/confusion, accident  
> Wordcount: 865
> 
> Title from _Ghetto Defendant_ by The Clash and Allen Ginsberg.

Daisy does what needs to be done. Has all her life. Never complains.

But God fucking dammit, sometimes it’s hard to keep it from spilling out, all her rage at the… pointlessness of it all. There’s nothing to be done about the smoke that still coats the inside of her nostrils, but she’s going to get every last speck of dirt from under her fingernails if she has to scrub them until she bleeds.

It’s the warmest day of the year and she went straight back to the station from Epping Forest because she’s still technically on duty, even if she’s always useless after dealing with one of those… cases. She’s sweaty and exhausted and angry at nobody and everybody at the same time.

She doesn’t cry out on purpose. In hindsight, using a knife to clean out the worst of the dirt was unwise, and when she pierces the tender skin under her right index fingernail, she knows she should have expected it.

Her blood drips, drips in the break room’s sink, rust-black on the tarnished metal surface, and she closes her eyes as the smell of iron replaces the smoke, leaving an acrid aftertaste in the back of her mouth.

For a moment, she has everything under control. The pain and the blood become a sharp focus, but she's still _her._ And then someone runs into the break room – “Hey, I heard… What the _hell?”_ – and she

_forgets herself_

for just a moment. When she comes back, is to Basira's big dark eyes even bigger with alarm, fixed on her, her face paler than Daisy's ever seen it. Her hand is halfway to her gun already. What has she seen?

The moment that follows is still and silent, suffocating. They still don't know each other, and while they trust one another as partners, the person is another matter. Basira is eager and curious and clever, but Daisy still doesn’t know if she’s someone who’ll do what needs to be done with the cold efficiency that Daisy needs.

(There will be a moment when Daisy will ask her to make an impossible promise, and she’ll think about this moment, the first time she made Basira choose between impossibilities.)

Daisy does her best to keep her expression neutral, level, and to avoid looking at the hand that’s still hovering near the holster. She doesn’t want to sway Basira’s choice one way or the other. If Basira turns on her, well. Daisy won’t blame her, but that’ll mean that she will never be one of _them,_ she’ll never be trusted the way Daisy is.

Then Basira lowers her hand, and the world starts spinning again. “You’re bleeding all over the floor,” she observes.

In the brief moment where she _slipped_ (damn, she _hopes_ it was brief, but when she’s _not herself_ all she can hear is the blood roaring in her ears, all she can see is red), Daisy stepped back from the sink and gravity did the rest. Wordlessly, she puts her hand back over the sink. She may be bone-tired, but she doesn’t miss the meaning of Basira choosing to ignore what just happened. To trust Daisy without question.

She doesn’t realise how piercing Basira’s gaze was until she takes her eyes away from Daisy and starts opening and closing cupboards, looking for something. “What happened?”

Her tone is so schoolmarmy that Daisy has to fight the impulse to apologise. “Cut myself.”

Basira rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I can see that. I mean, what were you doing?”

Daisy can already play this conversation in her head, so she just shrugs. She tries to grab the first aid kit that Basira has finally unearthed under the sink, but her uninjured hand is swatted away.

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage?” Ignoring her scowl, Basira opens the kit on the counter, taking stock of what’s inside.

Reluctant but chastised for the time being, Daisy watches her open the disinfectant and reach out for Daisy’s hand. When they make eye contact again, Daisy only sees impassive practicality in them. Not a trace of pity, no matter how hard she tries to find it.

She’s so tired. All things considered, it’s easier to give up. She puts her injured hand in Basira’s palm.

While Basira is focused on cleaning the wound, Daisy doesn’t look away for a second. There’s a sort of… gentleness in the way Basira touches her. No, that’s not the right word. Respect, maybe. Basira must have seen the knife in the sink and Daisy’s dirty nails and drawn her own conclusions, but she doesn’t comment.

Quick and nimble, she wraps up Daisy’s finger in gauze. Daisy doesn’t have the time to miss the unexpected warmth of Basira’s hands (hands that will one day hold all her pieces together with stubborn, single-minded determination, that will heal her and keep her tethered and one day, if there’s mercy in this world, pull the trigger and end whatever she’s become) before the call for an intervention in Kensington arrives, requesting the presence of Sectioned officers.

Exhaustion is seeping through Daisy’s veins like a drug, but she’s here. And she doesn’t let her people down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find the Tumblr post for this ficlet [here](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com/post/627791074194259968/hungry-darkness-of-living).


	7. things you said to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Tags: JonMartin, set after episode 22  
> Prompts: messy breakdown, home  
> Wordcount: 930
> 
> Title from the Stone Temple Pilot's _Interstate Love Song_

It’s entirely too early to be at work and someone is crying in the Archives.

Jon is sure he wasn’t meant to hear it, and it would be easy to pretend he hasn’t. To just slip into his office and make an early start, waiting for the storm to pass. He starts walking in that direction before changing his mind, and then changing it again. 

“Oh, for…” He pinches the bridge of his nose, glad there’s nobody around to watch his pathetic little two-step, and marches down the hall before he has time to reconsider.

The institute’s building is ancient and, besides some ugly but necessary contemporary additions such as fire doors, the original architecture is generally preserved. The small, dimly-lit bathroom with tiled surfaces and brass fixtures is no exception.

The door is not closed all the way, and Jon pushes it open silently. The man sitting on the floor by the sinks doesn’t notice him until Jon — gritting his teeth — clears his throat.

Martin’s head jerks up from his palms and he gasps. “J-Jon. I’m… Oh, no.” He tries to sit straight, wiping away tears that are immediately replaced, and a wet, self-deprecating laugh escapes him. “I’m sorry, I… can’t seem to stop crying.”

Jon exhales from his nose and steps in, sinking his hands in the pockets of his coat. From what he can tell, Martin is still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and his hair looks even more ruffled than usual. But Jon can’t find it in him to point it all out. “It’s a perfectly reasonable reaction.” He’s careful to use his work voice: even, analytical, cold. “It’s been two stressful weeks, I imagine. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t break down sooner.”

There’s a pause in Martin’s sniffling as he frowns. “Uh… thanks?”

Jon frowns as well. That probably wasn’t very reassuring. “Do you need anything?”

Martin’s nervous laugh ends with a sob and a loud sniff. “Yeah, actually. I would really like to go back to my flat without being stalked by monsters, but I’d settle for a toothbrush and a change of clothes.”

Well, Jon probably deserved a sarcastic answer. He doesn’t regret pushing for Martin to stay at the Archives for the time being, but he knows that this place doesn’t feel like home to anyone but him. He takes a hand out of his pocket to grab a few tissues and he steps closer, handing them over.

For a moment, Martin looks up at him like an exhausted, puffy-eyed and sleep-deprived deer in the headlights, before remembering himself and quietly taking the tissues from Jon’s hand.

“Let’s work our way up from these, shall we.” Jon puts his hand back in his pocket. “If you make a list, I’ll send Tim out later.” He clears his throat, realising he’s hovering and taking a step back. “Take… take your time, Martin.”

He’s about to leave — he should probably have left a while ago — when Martin speaks. “I still hear it.” He blows his nose in one of the tissues, pointedly avoiding to look at Jon. “Knocking. All the time. And that awful, _crawling_ sound. They’re like… ghost sounds. I can’t close my eyes, and I can’t sleep, and apparently now I can’t seem to stop… this.” He gestures at his face, which is covered in red splotches — from crying or embarrassment, or both — and fresh tears.

Jon sighs again. He should just go away and give Martin a bit of privacy. It’s what Jon would want, if the roles were reversed. Except… Martin is not Jon. He crouches in front of Martin, ignoring the popping and cracking of his knees and the way Martin tries to withdraw. Jon has the feeling that, if Martin could disappear inside the wall or have the ground swallow him, he would probably do it. “Tell me five things you see.”

Martin looks up again, blinking as if he was seeing Jon for the first time. “What?”

Shushing the instinct to second-guess himself, Jon says, maybe a little too forcefully: “Just do as I say. Five things. Describe them to me.”

Martin’s face goes even redder as he lowers his gaze to his lap. “Um… A paper tissue. Ew.” He crumples it and sets it on the floor. Then he inhales, looking behind Jon’s shoulders. “A… sink? I… I’ve always liked these taps. They have a nice curve, like the neck of a swan. I wonder how old they are.”

“Go on.” Jon attempts an encouraging tone, but it sounds more like an order, and Martin stammers like a schoolboy during a test.

“The… the tiles. They must be… hard to clean, they’re so small. The sconces are pretty. That’s called Liberty, right? The one with all the flowers?”

“I think so.”

“And…” Once again Martin is struggling to speak, but at least he’s not crying anymore. He’s looking at Jon, who’s suddenly very aware of himself. 

He feels Martin’s gaze almost physically, like a feather-light touch, as it travels on his eyebrows, his cheekbones, his hairline, and eventually his eyes, which is when Martin seems to realise he’s examining Jon like a tourist at the British. “I feel much better,” he says, looking away.

Taking it as his cue, Jon stands up. “Right. I’ll see you at work later. Take your time,” he says, just as Martin stammers, “Right, yes, thanks, see you later,” and even if the first thing Jon does when he reaches his office is taking off his coat, the warm sensation takes a while to go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find the Tumblr post for this ficlet [here](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com/post/627902252781289472/things-you-said-to-me).

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all of my Discord friends and especially to [pinehutch](https://pinehutch.tumblr.com/) (who's the actual, certified best) for their support and cheerleading.
> 
> I'm @mllekurtz on Tumblr, come say hi!


End file.
